Caught in the Fire
by Penny-in-the-sky
Summary: After a rough night, Hermione seeks refuge in the one person she feels safe with. Post-Hogwarts, RHr.
1. Always welcome

****

Caught in the fire

By Penny-in-the-sky

RATING: PG-13

SUMMARY: After a rough night, Hermione seeks refuge in the one person she feels completely safe with.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is set approximately five years after Harry, Ron and Hermione graduated from Hogwarts. You may find the background story a bit odd, and maybe it is, but I just wanted something that would make Hermione run to Ron's home in the middle of the night, and this seemed fitting.

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling owns it all. Well, except for Gary, whom I've created, but he's not really someone to be proud of... The song lyrics are from "You" by Radiohead.

*****

__

"You are the sun and moon and stars are you,   
and I could never run away from you.   
You try at working out chaotic things,   
and why should I believe myself not you?  
It's like the world is going to end so soon,   
and why should I believe myself?   
  
You me and everything caught in the fire,  
I can see me drowning, caught in the fire."

*****

What was she doing?

She was running. Running.

What? Running. Running. Running.

She kept her mind focused on the word as she fled on. Or, more like stumbled on. Her whole body was numb and she was unable to move in any co-ordinated fashion, so, she stumbled. Stumbled onward, forward, towards something, away from...

Running. She was running. Running. Running.

She had to focus, had to keep her mind focused on that one word. The split second she let that word leave her mind, everything became a mess again, and other words popped up, words she couldn't think about right now. So she was running. Only running. Concentrating utterly and completely on that one thing, that one activity. Running.

But it was hard. Her mind was too active, too willing to work. It couldn't, it _wouldn't_ stay focused on just one word, and she was unable to prevent bits and pieces of things she didn't want to think about from slipping through.

__

Don't you ever speak to me like that.

She gave a small, involuntary cry, but kept going. She couldn't stop, mustn't stop. If she stopped she was afraid she'd never be able to move again, she was afraid she'd take root, physically take root in the asphalt underneath her. She was afraid that if she stopped, she'd dissolve into millions and millions of tiny fragments, the pieces of her spreading with the wind to far off places. Then she'd be lost forever. _Truly_ lost.

__

I thought you'd learned by now. I thought you'd understood.

Understood. She'd never understood. He'd often said that to her, pointed out how slow-minded she could be, for "such a clever girl", as he put it. How strange he'd thought it was that there were people who actually admired her mind.

No, she'd never understood. She'd never understood his reasoning, his logic, his prejudices, his envy, his blind anger. She'd never even understood what it was he so desperately wanted her to understand.

__

You're incapable of understanding. You're incapable of changing yourself.

She was indeed. And she was incapable of understanding why it was so important to him that she changed herself. She'd never been good enough, not when she was just herself. She wasn't enough.

And change? Who was he to talk about that when he himself so obviously never would change. Change, or hope of it, was what had kept her with him for such a long time. She had hoped that he was capable of it, capable of becoming a different person, a better person.

She stumbled on. It felt as if her body was becoming heavier, her speed was decreasing. There was a wooden ball the size of a coconut in her stomach, and her lungs were suddenly of no use. She found herself holding her breath. But after less than fifteen steps she was gasping for air again, going back to her erratic breathing. Stumbling on.

__

What's wrong with you? You have to learn...

She'd never imagined herself to be the abused type. After everything she'd seen on TV and read in magazines, she hadn't thought it was possible that she herself could turn into one of those, in her own eyes, weak women who believed their men to be capable of change, no matter how brutal they became, and claimed that love was what made them stay with them. She'd always thought that, if beaten, she'd beat right back before heading straight for the door. But that first time... 

The shock had been enough to numb her brain completely. She'd been frozen solid, unable to speak, unable to breathe. Then the apologies had come. "Oh God, I'm so sorry, I don't know what got into me...". And she'd forgiven him. She'd been a "weak woman" and forgiven him.

As time passed, the apologies had come less often. In the end they'd never come. What he did had just been part of the routine. He'd been teaching her a lesson, a lesson she apparently never fully learned, since the beating didn't stop, and the mind-games and mental abuse didn't stop.

Then suddenly, tonight...

__

Control freak.

He had thrown it at her, completely unprovoked, as always. He'd spat it out as if the mere thought of her and her mind, "your sick, controlling mind", disgusted him. He'd glared at her, expecting an apology. For what, she didn't know. Maybe for the way her hair looked. Or the fact that she hadn't had time to pay the phone bill yet. Or maybe just an apology for being herself, for standing there looking stupid.

Suddenly she just couldn't do it anymore.

__

Oh, so I'm a control freak?

Her tone had surprised him. And herself even more. She'd immediately known, from the look in his eyes, that she had taken the first step down a road on which there was no turning back.

__

Excuse me?

There'd been icicles on his voice. And she'd seen it, then. How cold he was. There was no way of warming a person as cold as that. She'd shivered. What if he had rubbed off on her? What if she wouldn't ever be warm again?

__

Why do you feel the need to control me, Gary? Why are you that weak?

She'd known what the answer to that would be. She'd known the reaction, and yet she hadn't been able to stop herself from saying it. The blow had come quick and hard, and her head had whipped to the side. She'd barely had time to register the stinging in her cheek before he had grabbed her chin with his hand and forced her to stare into his eyes.

__

You don't ever speak to me like that. Not ever.

He was so cold. 

She'd stared back. He wouldn't win this time. He mustn't win.

__

Why not? You speak to me like that all the time.

She'd jerked her head out of his grip and made for the door. But within seconds he had grabbed her by the hair and was pushing her face up against the wall.

__

Don't you leave me.

She'd been sure her jaw would break. The wall was so hard. Her sore cheek had been up against it and she'd felt the rough wallpaper urging to press through her skin. Hot tears had begun stinging her face.

__

You don't ever leave me.

She'd been having trouble breathing. She'd gasped for air and then done something she'd never thought herself capable of.

She'd fought back. 

Snapping her head back, she had hit him full on the nose. Yelling out in pain, he'd let go of her hair and taken a few steps back, grabbing his face. She had seized this opportunity and sprung for the door. But he'd been quick and had been pulling her back by the arm before she'd reached the handle. She'd kicked and screamed as he'd started dragging her back into the living room. One of her desperately fighting legs had managed to find his knee and he'd fallen backwards, letting go of her in the process.

This time she'd gotten all the way to the door and out of it before he'd managed to catch up. She'd raced down the stairs, panting and whimpering in disorder. When she'd almost reached the street door, she'd realised he was coming down the last flight of steps.

__

Don't you go out that door.

She had turned around, ever so slowly. For a few moments, they had stood there, staring each other dead in the eye. She'd known that something had been bound to happen any second. And it had.

He'd lunged forward, arms outstretched in a ridiculously wild manner. Without thinking, she'd pulled her wand out of her front pocket and aimed it at him. She hadn't even been sure which curse she'd shouted, but it must've been something strong, because he'd flown back with a wail, and landed hard, slumped against the wall.

His eyes had been closed. He hadn't been moving. 

Her heart had stopped beating.

Somehow she'd managed to get herself outside. There she'd collapsed in the street, overcome by nausea, and vomited in the gutter 'til she thought her insides would come up. Somehow she'd then managed to get up and start running. And now here she was. On the streets of London, in the middle of the night, running.

She had no idea where she would go. Where could she possibly go after all this? Who could she possibly talk to? She felt the tears come again, and she let out a frustrated yell as she pushed herself to go faster. She had to get away. She had to keep on running. They must never find her. Nobody must ever find her, or she'd surely be sent away. Maybe for life. She'd just gone and ruined her whole life. She would be on the run forever, because there was no way of going back, not now.

She might've killed somebody.

With a desperate cry she fell over and landed on all four on the hard ground. She stood there, head down, sobbing uncontrollably, trying to remember when she'd last been this helpless.

Probably never.

For several minutes she stood like that. Then with one final sob, which racked her whole body, she drew in a ragged breath and looked up.

Oh, of course.

She recognised the building immediately, and her heart sped up. Of course this was where she'd been heading. She should've known. She unsteadily got up and started moving, ever so slowly, towards the door of the building. When there, she studied the names on the list of the people living in the building. Not that it was necessary, really. Fourth floor, apartment 8, she knew that. But she just couldn't bring herself to press the button next to his name. She wanted to, she desperately wanted to get up to him and be warm again, but there was something holding her back. What it was, she couldn't say. Maybe she was unsure of what to say to him. How to explain. Maybe she just didn't want him dragged into this mess she'd managed to create.

Her longing got the better of her in the end, and before she could stop herself she pressed the button. For a few, killing seconds, she thought he wasn't home, but then his voice came out of the speaker, tired and rasping.

"Yes?"

That one, tiny word, spoken by him, was almost enough to send her off into another crying fit, but she managed to control herself and spoke into the microphone.

"It's me, it's..."

Her voice was barely audible, even to herself.

"Who is this?"

He sounded irritated. Maybe she'd woken him up. She cleared her throat and tried again, this time managing to get her name out. The door immediately buzzed open and she gratefully stumbled inside. There she leaned against the closed door, and took a few deep breaths, willing herself to calm down. She couldn't go up there and be as uncontrolled and jumpy as she was right now. After straightening her clothes up and wiping her face, she headed for the lift and stepped inside.

As it brought her upwards, she leaned back against the wall of the lift, closing her eyes. When opening them again, she was shocked to see her bruised, tearstained face stare back at her in the mirror. For the first time in her life she was thankful for her big, bushy hair, and managed to arrange it so that it efficiently hid her hurt cheek.

The lift arrived at its destination far too quickly. Somehow she managed to get herself out of it, and then she was staring at his door. His big, wooden door with the Christmas garland still up, even though it was February. She smiled in spite of herself, remembering how she, during her last visit, had commented on this, and how he'd claimed to not yet have had time for any post-Christmas cleaning. She'd laughed and pointed out that it wouldn't take more than ten seconds to remove the garland from the front door, but he'd adorned a mock-haughty expression and said that she had no idea how busy he was these days.

Her eyes travelled to the brass sign which hung below the Christmas ornament.

R. Weasley.

It looked so classy, so neat, so unlike him. But then again, it wasn't he who had bought it. It had, along with an impractically small coffee-table, been a Christmas present from Mrs. Weasley, who thought that his apartment was in dire need of some stylish details. He'd reluctantly put it up, mainly to please his mother.

She realised that he must probably be wondering where she was, considering the amount of time it had taken her to travel four stories up. Her hand reached towards the doorbell, but before she could press it, the door opened.

The sight of him was enough to send her heart racing and make her knees weak.

He stood there, looking down at her, in pyjama pants and one of his mother's infamous knitted sweaters. Radiating warmth. Yes, he was so warm. And she couldn't touch him. She wanted nothing more than to throw herself in his arms and receive a bit of his warmth, but she couldn't.

So, there he was, no more than three feet away, and yet so utterly and painfully untouchable.

"Hello."

His voice was warm, too. Deep, safe and warm. She couldn't bring herself to answer him with her own, unsteady voice. It would ruin the moment, she felt. So instead, she nodded and smiled weakly.

He didn't ask any questions, just invited her in with a quick gesture and locked the door behind her. Then she stood there in the hallway, feeling small and stupid. She kept her head somewhat bowed, so as to hide her face. But she could feel him eyeing her. 

"In a hurry to leave, were you?"

She glanced up at him and found he was looking at her feet, brow furrowed. It was only then that she realised she wasn't wearing any shoes. How could she not have noticed? Her formerly white socks were now grey and black and completely wet. The instant she saw this, her feet went ice cold. It was one of those strange psychological phenomena: her feet had felt fine until she saw what a mess they were.

She stood there staring at her feet, not able to come up with anything to say. All possible comments flying through her mind at the moment just seemed terribly ill-timed.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

She stole another glance at him and saw that he was already making for the bathroom. She didn't follow. When he noticed this, he stopped and stared at her.

"Well?"

She went back to looking at her feet.

"I..."

Her voice sounded so pathetic, especially following his. She couldn't bring herself to continue. But he was waiting.

"I can't..."

She felt so small. So stupid.

"You can't what?"

How could he sound so patient? How could he be so nice to her when she showed up in the middle of the night, looking a complete fright?

She took a deep breath, urging herself to continue.

"I can't walk around on the floor... My socks... I'd make a mess."

She felt so, so stupid. And he wasn't saying anything. A lump was forming in her throat again. Maybe she should just leave.

He let out a low laugh. When she glanced up at him, she found him looking at her with such fondness that she didn't think she'd be able to remain standing.

"Do you really think I care if you make a mess or not? Really, Hermione, don't you know me at all?"

She actually managed to smile at him then. A barely perceptible smile, but still.

"Now, come on," he said, heading towards the bathroom. This time she followed him. When they reached their destination, he held the door open for her. She kept her head bowed when slipping by him, and immediately bent over the sink, making a big show of beginning to wash her face.

"I'll see if I can find you some clothes," he said and disappeared, closing the door. She immediately straightened up, grimacing. The warm water on her bruises had stung like mad. She avoided catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, knowing that it would only make her cry again.

He was back in a couple of minutes. "You'll have to make do with these," he said, opening the door no more than five inches and throwing in a bundle of clothes. After pausing at the door for a few moments, he mumbled "I'll go make some tea," before disappearing again. 

Hermione picked up the clothes and went through the items. A pair of jeans, a black top, a sweater and a pair of woolly socks. Apart from the socks, which were undoubtedly owned by Ron, judging by the size of them, and the sweater, which was another colourful creation by Mrs. Weasley, the clothes were almost her size and must've belonged to a girl. Probably Jenny, she thought to herself, remembering the loud blonde witch who'd had Ron under her whip a few months last year. She'd moved in with him, considered the place to be as good as her own and therefore done a great deal of redecorating before suddenly taking off with a Muggle drummer and leaving Ron in an emotional mess. Well, for a few days, anyway. He'd had a speedy recovery, much thanks to Hermione, Harry and Ginny, who'd convinced him that her departure was really nothing to be upset about.

Hermione quickly got out of her wet, dirty clothes and put on the new ones. She couldn't help but be a bit pleased to find that Jenny's jeans were a few sizes too big, as was the top. She put the socks on, rolling them down to avoid tripping all over herself later, then pulled the sweater over her head.

It was amazing how something as inanimate as a sweater could make her feel so safe. She pulled it up to her nose, closing her eyes and breathing in the scent of Ron. Because he had a certain scent, and it made her dizzy and weak in the knees and happy and strong, all at once.

Suddenly remembering her attack of nausea earlier, she started searching for a toothbrush. She only found two, and, seeing as one of them obviously had been used to clean out something horrid, she decided that Ron probably wouldn't mind if she borrowed his.

After thoroughly brushing her teeth and rinsing out her mouth with lime-green Magic Mouthwash, she felt almost presentable, and let herself out of the bathroom.

When she got to the kitchen door, she peeked in, relieved to find him standing by the stove with his back against her. She entered, as silently as she could, but apparently not silently enough. Without turning around, he addressed her.

"Better?"

She automatically nodded, then remembered he couldn't see her.

"Yes."

He didn't say anything more. And he didn't turn around. Suddenly she felt a bit uncomfortable. She had no idea what to do now. Going up to him and engaging in pleasant smalltalk about everyday life was hardly an option, considering the present circumstances. Neither was breaking down crying right there on the kitchen floor, or saying something along the lines of "My boyfriend's beaten me. Look at my face. Aren't I hideous?". All of these options were definitely ruled out, and yet a part of Hermione felt like doing every one of them.

"Thank you," she whispered, not really having planned to say anything.

There was a pause.

"For what?"

She was sure he knew. Still, she decided to humour him.

"For letting me in. Even though I came unannounced and it's..."

"12,30. On a weeknight," he interrupted with a little laugh.

She smiled. "Right."

"You know you're always welcome here, 'Mione."

She had to swallow hard to keep herself from some crazy display of emotion. Honestly, did he _want_ her to cry?

"So, how's Gary?"

Not good. He might be dead. I might've killed him. 

Her mind started spinning again at the memory and she had to steady herself against the kitchen table. Choosing to ignore Ron's question, she gained control of her voice before speaking again.

"Thank you for not asking any questions."

"What do you mean? That was a question right there."

"You know what I mean."

She could see him nod. But he didn't say anything, not at once. The reply came after almost a minute.

"I know you'll talk to me when you're ready. If you need time, then I guess that's alright. I'm not going anywhere."

It was too much for her to take. Him standing there, back to her, being so painfully understanding, so completely nice to her, so glowing and so warm. So Ron. She knew he wanted to ask a million questions, to find out what had happened and why she was there. She knew he was curious enough to die, and still he gave her _time_. She wasn't even sure if she deserved it. But it was so like him, to read her like that and to see she wasn't ready, not yet. 

This time she wasn't able to control the lump in her throat. It travelled upwards fast and ended as a big, dry sob which shook her body. Desperate to hide somewhere, to get warmer, to close the distance between them, she ran up to him and threw herself at his back, locking him in a tight embrace around his middle. If he was shocked, he didn't show it. She stood there hugging him tightly, pressing her healthy cheek into his back and breathing him in. He smelled just like the sweater she was wearing.

And he was warm. Even warmer than she had expected. She felt like a chunk of ice which had been thrown, or rather thrown itself into a fire, and was now caught there, unable to get out. Because she was definitely unable to get out, to let go. And he was a fire. How could she ever have been afraid of never being warm again? She should have known this was all it would take.

Ron grabbed her hands, grabbed them with his own, big warm ones, and gently began loosening their grip on him. For one horrible moment she was convinced he'd ask her to leave, but then he carefully turned around to face her, and he brought her into his arms, so that he was properly holding her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she buried her face in his chest. Hiding. Taking refuge in the only person she could ever feel this safe with. Her arms were still holding him in a fierce grip, as if she was afraid someone would come and take him away from her.

He brought one hand up to the back of her head and gently began stroking her hair. Lightly, lightly, his fingertips ran over her head. Then they travelled over her ear, slowly, tentatively, and found her hurt cheek. He moved his fingers over it. She wasn't aware of what he was doing, didn't sense how his fingers were carefully checking the side of her face, just vaguely registered a slight stinging followed by a tingling sensation. It wasn't until his fingers reached her bottom lip and found the crack in it that she froze, suddenly realising that it was too late. Now there was no turning back.

Her first thought was to leave. Just get out of there as quick as possible and start running again. She didn't want to explain to Ron, didn't want him to see what had become of her. How pathetic and weak she was.

But then she realised that there was nowhere in the world she could possibly go right now. This was the only place where she was safe.

His fingers were still on her lip, resting there lightly. Slowly, slowly, she let her arms fall from their tight grip around his middle and drew away from him. He let go of her as well, and for the first time that night she looked straight up at him, not bothering to conceal her face anymore. 

He was staring down at her, and the look on his face made her stomach churn. His lips were pressed tightly together, forming a straight line. The crinkle between his eyebrows would have had her thinking he was annoyed, if it weren't for everything she could read in his eyes. She'd always joked about being able to read his eyes like the pages of a book, and this time was no exception. All sorts of emotions were evident there, among them worry and anger and sadness, but most prominent was, much to her bewilderment... betrayal.

He looked terribly hurt.

She didn't understand. What had she done? Maybe she should have gone through with her first impulse and just left. Standing there, not knowing what to do, having him looking at her like that... it was almost unbearable. She shook her head in confusion, her eyes misting up again.

"Ron, what..."

"Why have you never told me?" His voice was quiet.

She didn't know what to say, it seemed there was no possible answer. Why _had_ she never told him? Why had she lived like this for so long, keeping it all to herself, not going to him for comfort, even if it was the only thing she'd wanted to do? Why had she not let him help her?

But she already knew the answer to those questions, and she was convinced that, if given the opportunity to go back and change things, she would still have done it all the same way. Well, no, that wasn't entirely true. Her first change would have been to never let Gary become a part of her life in the first place. But she knew that she wouldn't have told Ron anything, even if she'd gotten another chance. She couldn't have told him.

She was far too ashamed. That was the bottom line. Ashamed that it had got this far, that she had let someone damage her this much without her being able to do anything about it. She knew that Ron, even though never admittedly, thought of her as strong and independent, and she didn't want to ruin that. She wanted him to look at her the same way forever.

But of course, that was impossible now. Everything was ruined. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Hermione opened her mouth to say something, but no words came out, and to her horror she found that Ron had turned his back on her and gone back to staring intently at the boiling water. The back which had made her feel so safe just minutes earlier, was now shutting her out completely. She was perfectly capable of reading body language, and his was screaming "I don't want to talk to you".

Completely dumbfounded, she blinked at the tears that had gathered in her eyes, and they spilled hotly onto her cheeks. How had this happened? How had she gone so quickly from being fully protected in the arms of Ron to being shut out by him? What had she done?

It had been a mistake. She'd known it the minute she'd seen his building. Coming here had been a big mistake.

And the stupid tears wouldn't stop falling. She swiped at her eyes with the sleeves of the sweater. The scent of it seemed to somewhat clear her mind. Seized by determination, she pulled the sweater over her head and threw it on the floor.

"Thanks for the loan," she mumbled before turning on her heel and exiting the room. In a haze, she reached the hallway where she crouched down and frantically began searching the cluttered shoe rack. The sound of footsteps and the creaking of the floor told her that he had followed her.

"Hermione..."

He sounded pleading. And he should, she thought to herself. She didn't look up, didn't want to see him.

"Thanks again," she said, struggling to sound casual. "I'm sorry for the intrusion. I hope I didn't bother you _too_ much."

She sounded harsh and she knew it. Maybe it wasn't fair to him. After all he _had_ let her in, he _had_ taken care of her. But his reaction to the state she was in had been so completely wrong. Not that she knew how she'd wanted him to react, she just knew it'd been wrong. And she'd never felt this small and stupid and hopeless before, so she had to keep control of her mind and body by speaking like that.

"What are you looking for?"

What was she looking for?! Wasn't it pretty _bloody_ obvious? With a frustrated "oh!" she got up and kicked the shoe rack, which gave an almost audible groan and collapsed into a pile of broken sticks.

She turned to Ron, but not to apologise. No, she wasn't sorry anymore. She suddenly wasn't sad and she didn't feel helpless either. The only remainder of her previous state of hopelessness was the tear-stains on her cheeks. But if anything, they just made her angrier. Yes, she was terribly angry and wanted nothing more than to find her bloody shoes so she could get out of there and be by herself.

"Where are they?" she snapped. "What have you done with my shoes?"

But Ron didn't answer. He was staring at the former shoe rack – now no more than a pile of splinters – his eyebrows raised. "I think you killed it," he said.

Under any other circumstances she would have found that comment funny. Under any other circumstances she would have let all the anger and frustration roll off her like water at his words and laughed, or at least smiled.

But these weren't any other circumstances. 

Right now she was just tired and angry and scared and lonely and wanted nothing more in the world at the moment than to find her _bloody shoes_, and he was just standing there, making stupid comments as if this was just another night for him.

The emotional roller-coaster that she'd been riding during the night now took another, sudden dive. Within seconds she was blinded by tears which started rolling down her face, seemingly as furious as the rest of her.

"Do you think this is funny?!" She was practically screaming but couldn't seem to care. Her fists were clenched and her whole body was shaking with rage. "Is this just a big joke to you?"

He stared at her, mouth open and wide-eyed, as she stomped up to the door and placed a hand on the handle. She turned to him again, boiling inside.

"Now, are you going to give me my shoes or do I have to leave without them?"

Her voice was high-pitched and quavering, but it couldn't be helped. She scowled at him through her tears, with trembling chin, knowing she must look very much like a four-year-old.

"Well?" she sniffed, attempting to dry her eyes with her hands. He was staring at her, with a – for once – uninterpretable look in his eyes, but she refused to look away.

"Well?" she repeated, but much more weakly. His intense eyes were getting to her. She was feeling slightly dizzy and her hysterical crying had given her a headache.

He smiled at her, then. A tiny, sad smile.

"You weren't wearing any shoes, 'Mione."

Her mouth fell open and the room started spinning. Of _course_ she hadn't been wearing any shoes. How could she have forgotten? How could she not have remembered the state her feet had been in when she arrived?

She found herself shaking her head in disbelief. Why couldn't she seem to think straight? Had she completely lost her mind?

"I..." she began, but it was all she could get out. She looked up at Ron and shook her head again, her face crumpling up. 

"I don't know what to do," she sobbed, raising her hands in a motion of defeat.

He reached her in a split second, enveloping her in his long arms. But this time she didn't even give thought to his warmth or his scent or their closeness, she just clung on for dear life. It was all she could do to keep her knees from buckling.

"I don't know what to do," she repeated in a muffled voice, her face buried in his chest. As an answer he reached behind his back and took both her hands in his, bringing them to his chest. 

"I need you to tell me what's happened," he said, looking her straight in the eye. "Do you think you can manage?"

Every fibre of her being wanted to say no, say she wasn't ready, but there was something in his pleading, earnest look that forced her to nod. It wouldn't be easy, she knew that, but maybe it was all for the best. Maybe it would help, sharing it all with someone.

With one hand on her back he gently but firmly ushered her into the living room. There he sat her down on the sofa.

"Now," he said, "I'm just going to go finish making the tea. It won't take a minute. Don't you go running off now, all right?"

He attempted a grin, but it was strained and unbalanced and looked completely unfitting on such an uneasy facial expression. She tried desperately to smile back, but it was impossible. All the smiles had fallen off her at some time during the night.

"I won't," she said, trying to sound as assuring as possible. He eyed her sceptically. It was clear that he didn't trust her not to bolt.

"I won't," she repeated, this time with more force, and a hint of offence. It was a tone with which he was familiar, and he visibly relaxed. She was rewarded with an honest grin from him.

"Had to make sure," he excused himself before leaving for the kitchen.

Hermione pulled her legs up on the sofa, resting her chin on her knees. It was a strange sofa, long and broad and with a chequered blue and green cover. She'd never been at a dinner party here without hearing somebody commenting on it, and she herself had questioned Ron's judgement when she'd first seen it. Her first thought had been that it was a hideous creation, and she'd told him as much. But Ron had just smiled and patted the sofa, looking like a proud father. "I know it's awful," he'd said. "Even the shop-keeper tried to talk me out of buying it, and that says something." He'd paused, hand resting on the armrest, before continuing. "But I just couldn't leave it there. I figured that if I didn't buy it, then nobody else would either, and the thought of it standing there in the shop all alone..." He'd shrugged. "I don't know. But I do know that if I were a sofa, and looked like that, then I'd wish for someone to look beyond my godawful exterior and take time to notice my wonderful personality."

And after having heard those words Hermione could do little but love the poor, tacky sofa.

Ron returned to the living room then, carrying two mugs of steaming tea. She gratefully accepted one, and cradled it in her hands. It was too hot to drink yet, so she sat holding it and breathing in the scent.

"It's cloudberry and sage," he informed her.

She studied the tea closer. "That's awfully brave of you," she said.

"Don't know about that. I just wanted something classy, so I went for the one containing things I hadn't heard of."

She snorted at that and blew carefully into the cup, so as to cool its contents. Then she put her lips to the brim and sipped the tea.

"How was it?" he asked.

She stared at him, with an "Honestly, Ron" look on her face.

"You mean you've never tried it yourself?"

"You kidding?" he said with a grin. "As if I'd ever taste anything out of a bag labelled 'Cloudberry and sage'. They sound like the main ingredients of some evil sleeping draught."

On reflex, she rolled her eyes and shook her head. She even surprised herself with a small smile. For a moment it felt as if everything was the same as it'd always been, with her and Ron bickering playfully about petty things. And then she remembered, how things weren't the same _at all_ anymore and how irreversible the events of the night were. Her hands started shaking so violently she had to put her cup down on the coffee-table. Then she leaned back and sighed, closing her eyes. None of them said anything for quite a while. She could feel him watching her, his gaze bore into her very core, and she felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge to meet his eyes. Turning her head she looked up into his face and her eyes locked with his. The intensity she found there made her heart speed up and a tight knot formed in her stomach. He was staring her dead in the eye, an unfamiliar and uninterpretable look on his face. She felt as if she was supposed to understand what his eyes were telling her, but she didn't. She was about to open her mouth and ask him right out what it was he was trying to say, when he spoke.

"Just let me get to him," he said, shaking his head slowly. "I don't care about my wand, I don't need it. I'll kill him with my bare hands."

There was something very familiar about those words... And she remembered. Harry had told her what Ron had said that time in second year at Hogwarts, when Malfoy had said it was too bad she hadn't died from meeting the basilisk. She swallowed hard, torn between telling him off for saying such an irrational thing, and throwing her arms around him and thanking him for always standing up for her, for always, always taking care of her.

She looked away. "Ron..."

"No, don't 'Ron' me," he interrupted. "If I ever see him again, I bloody well will kill him. And that's not a threat, that's a promise."

She shook her head. "You couldn't kill him," she said.

"Believe me, I could."

She turned and looked at him again. "No, believe _me_. You couldn't."

He clearly didn't understand. "'Mione, what are you talking about?"

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. In a tiny, almost inaudible voice she spoke.

"You couldn't possibly kill him, because most likely he's already dead."

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A/N: End of chapter one. This story won't consist of all too many chapters, maybe two or three more, but I felt it would be too long if it was all just one part. Wouldn't want to bore you!


	2. Dreaming about Quidditch

DISCLAIMER: See previous installment.

A/N: So here's the second part. Sorry it's taken a while (mildly put), but I've been rather busy, what with end of term school stuff, work and, well, summer holidays… okay, I'm aware of the fact that my excuses aren't very good. But anyway, here's the continuation. This part is pretty sappy and fluffy, but I wanted and liked it like that, so I hope you will too. Enjoy!

****

Caught in the Fire

Part 2

Half an hour later, Hermione once again stood in the bathroom with Ron's toothbrush in her hand, studying her face in the mirror. She turned her head from side to side, examining her bruises. She was quite a colourful sight by now. Her bruised cheek was an interesting mix of blue and green and yellow, and her cracked lip had grown even more red and swollen. _I won't be able to go outside or meet anybody for a week,_ she thought to herself. She could only imagine how Harry would react if she'd show up at his doorstep tomorrow morning, looking like this, with a cheerful "Hello, Harry, how are things with you?". She smiled, in spite of herself, at the absurdity of such a situation.

Making a face at her reflection, she put toothpaste on Ron's toothbrush and began brushing her teeth. It wasn't really necessary, seeing as she'd brushed her teeth less than an hour earlier, and she'd barely drunk any tea, but when he'd told her she could use his toothbrush she hadn't felt like telling him she'd already used it, and had instead accepted it with a thank you.

She could hear him bustling about out there, probably arranging a bed for himself on the hideous sofa. She'd objected forcefully when he'd offered her his bed and announced himself to be sleeping out in the living room, it'd felt like too much of an intrusion. But his perseverance had prevailed in the end, mostly because she didn't have the strength to argue with him. Not after the talk.

It'd been an arduous talk, which had begun straight after Hermione's announcement of Gary's probable death. First, a near deafening silence, which she'd refused to break, then questions, questions, questions. He'd asked them gently, so as to avoid scaring her away it seemed, and she'd told the full story, bit by bit, urged on by his questions. Everything from the first blow she'd taken to that fatal moment when she'd pointed her wand at Gary and uttered the curse. When he'd asked her which curse, she'd said she couldn't remember. He'd nodded, looking grim. And then he'd been wonderful, wonderful Ron and said he'd take care of it, that he'd help her and that she wasn't alone in this; he'd told her she'd be staying the night ("it's a demand, not an offer, 'Mione") and gone off to arrange everything, sending her off with his toothbrush in the process. And now here she was.

After one final spit in the sink, she put the toothbrush back in place and exited the bathroom. Upon entering the living room, she found Ron, asleep, lying on his back on the sofa, one arm draped over his eyes. The sofa was long enough for him to lie stretched out, but just barely. 

She stood there studying him for a while. His chest rose with every breath he took and his mouth was slightly open. She had a sudden impulse to go over and lie down next to him; to hide again, be warm again. Talk with him about everything and nothing until the sun came up. It wasn't as if she was going to get any sleep anyway, not all alone in Ron's dark room, with nothing to keep her mind off the events of the night.

She realised that if she stayed here watching him much longer she'd most certainly do something insane, like actually cuddling up next to him, or throwing herself out the window in sheer frustration. Careful not to wake him up, she tiptoed to the doorway leading into Ron's room. There she turned around and whispered goodnight to the back of the sofa holding the sleeping Ron.

When inside the bedroom, she didn't even bother to undress. Instead she went straight to the bed, drew back the covers and crept in, pulling the blankets up all the way to her chin.

Lying down in Ron's bed gave the same effect that putting on his sweater had. Everything in the bed – the pillows, the blankets, the sheets – bore his scent. It made her slightly dizzy, being so completely wrapped up in things smelling like him. It once more gave her the urge to run out and lie down next to him, to feel his scent _for real_. 'Cause as nice as sweaters and pillows and sheets could smell, they were _nothing_ compared to the real thing. 

It suddenly occurred to her that this was the very bed in which Ron slept every night, and this realisation of such an obvious fact made her stomach flutter in a funny way. She turned to lie on her side, facing the bedside table. On it there was, besides an odd lamp and a worn wristwatch, a small stack of books. She reached for the top one and brought it close to her face so she could read the title in the dark. 

"Seventeen Snazzy Styles for Snatching the Snitch". 

__

How typical, she thought, _that he's willing to spend money on a book like this when he wouldn't even spend _time_ on "Hogwart's, A History", which he, without any doubt, would have had much more use of_. She checked the next two books in the pile. They were both about Quidditch as well. One was filled with detailed accounts of memorable moments of various World Cups, and the other was an old, well-thumbed guide to the history of the Chudley Cannons. She smiled to herself. Him and those Cannons. He just wouldn't give up on them.

Just like he'd never give up on her.

She grabbed the last book of the pile, finding, to her surprise, that it was a pocket book of the kind found in Muggle bookstores. Not once during all the years she'd been a member of the Wizarding Community had she seen a book of magic have anything but a hard cover.

It was near impossible to make out the title, seeing as it seemed to be written in a dark colour on an even darker background. After having strained her eyes to the point where her head ached from the effort, she instead opened the book and read the title on the first page.

"Watership Down".

She was truly astonished. Not one time during all the years she'd known Ron had she heard of him reading a fictional novel. Comic books, yes, and the occasional short story if it was required for a homework assignment at Hogwart's, but never a novel, and most _certainly_ not of own free will.

She put the book back, making a mental note to ask him about it in the morning. Right now she needed to get some sleep. The headache that had been threatening to arrive all night had finally reached her, probably much thanks to the amount of crying she'd been doing. Her eyelids suddenly felt terribly heavy, and she slowly let her eyes fall shut.

But that proved to be a grave mistake. The minute her eyes closed, she was met by the image of Gary charging at her, arms outstretched, and then being struck by her curse, flying back with a scream. 

Her eyes flew back open and she immediately broke into a cold sweat. Her heart was racing and her mind was spinning. Reality was once again catching up with her and she wasn't sure she was ready for that yet. Sitting up, she looked around, frantically searching for something to concentrate on. She had to keep busy, keep her mind occupied, keep all those frightening thoughts from entering her head; even if it meant she wouldn't get any sleep at all.

Once more she reached towards the bedside table, and her hand fumbled to grab hold of one of the books lying there. But she was shaking so violently that her attempts resulted in all the books being knocked off the table and falling to the floor with a series of thuds.

Instinctively, she covered her mouth with her hand at the sound and flattened herself back down on the bed. Had Ron heard? Had she woken him up? She both hoped and didn't hope she had. Because even though she knew he needed to sleep, it would've been nice in a way, to see him come rushing into the room – worried, barely awake and ready to fight off any possible threat to her safety.

But no Ron arrived. She rolled her eyes in spite of herself, and marvelled at his ability to sleep through all sorts of mayhem. But then the panic caught hold of her again. Heart racing, she stared intently at the ceiling, willing her eyelids to stay up. She mustn't close her eyes. Mustn't, mustn't, mustn't. 

At the same time she knew she _had_ to get some sleep. Furthermore, she _wanted_ to sleep. She had no desire whatsoever to lie here awake all night, plagued by her own thoughts and forced to watch "The End of Gary" repeat itself, surround-sound, in her brain.

"Sleep," she suddenly hissed at herself. It was a ridiculous thing to do, seeing as she could hardly command herself to go to sleep, but in some strange way it seemed to help a little. She felt her body relax, and suddenly it didn't seem _entirely_ impossible for her to fall asleep tonight.

__

Just not here.

She was a bit startled at the thought, and yet it suddenly seemed very obvious. She would never get any sleep in here, not in this room. It didn't matter how much comfort the scent of the bedding brought her, or how reassuring it was that Ron spent all his nights here (well, _nearly_ all his nights anyway, but she didn't want to think about that right now). The room was simply too dark and lonely and _big_, especially in comparison to how utterly small she felt tonight.

Without putting any thought to her actions, she got out of bed and tip-toed to the door. Opening it, she peered into the living room.

Ah, yes. This room was much, much better. Warmer. 

Warmth was in the dim light emanating from the floor lamp by the bookshelves; warmth was in the colours, even those belonging to the hideous sofa and _warmth_ – the source of all the warmth in the room, it seemed – was in the creature lying in that very sofa, hidden from her view by a wall of green and blue squares. 

She swallowed hard – doubt, reasoning and logic threatening to catch up with her as she pondered whether or not to approach the sofa. What would he say? She could just imagine the look on his face if he awoke to find her standing by his side, smiling coyly and asking to share the sofa with him. Her cheeks flushed at the mere thought of sounding so... cheap.

She realised that she couldn't stay here shilly-shallying any longer. If she wanted to go over to him, she had to do it now, or else she'd most certainly chicken out and be condemned to a night of tossing and turning in Ron's far too big bed. _Do you want to sleep or not?_ a voice said to her irritably. Her throbbing head answered for her and she suddenly found herself, after having taken a few swift steps, standing next to the sleeping Ron.

What to do now? She bit her lip nervously as she studied him. He was lying in the exact same position as he had been earlier, stretched out and with one arm flung over his eyes. She considered, and subsequently discarded, a variety of methods to wake him, among them poking a finger in his ribs (too cruel), tapping him on the shoulder 'til he reacted in some way (too annoying) and – this was the one she felt like the most – stroking him gently on the forehead and whispering his name.

In the end she settled for a variant of the latter, but without the stroking. She whispered his name, and it was left hanging in the deathly quiet of the room, evoking no reaction whatsoever from him.

She tried again, a little louder. 

"Ron!"

Apparently this was more than enough to wake him. He flew up as if shot from a cannon and stood on the floor, arms out and blinking, with a somewhat wild expression on his face.

"Wh-what? What is it?" he said, shaking his head as if to clear it from sleep.

"Ron!" Hermione said, one hand over her heart, looking shaken and offended. "Don't _scare_ me like that!"

"Scare _you?_" Ron retorted, pulling a hand through his wild, red hair. "I had my heart right up with my tonsils! What did you _do_ that for?"

"I was _trying_ to wake you up! And I don't see how I could've scared you, I spoke in a normal conversational tone."

He rested one hand on top of his head and the other on his hip. Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath. "You're right," he said. "Sorry. I was in the middle of a pretty dramatic dream." Opening his eyes again, he looked her straight in the eye.

"You okay?" he asked, brow furrowed. She nodded and suddenly found herself smiling at him as she took in the sight of him. 

He was quite a vision. Mrs Weasley's sweater was gone and now he was instead wearing a white tank-top along with his striped pyjama pants. Hermione recognised the top; she'd won it for him at a fair they'd visited some years ago. It was white and yellow, with a far too cute print of two dogs playing with a ball. Furthermore, it was several sizes too small, and that, along with the childish print, was proof enough that it was actually meant for a child. But Ron hadn't budged when the stall-holder had questioned if this was actually the prize he wanted. He'd taken it with a satisfied smile and worn it the whole day. Hermione hadn't seen him wear it since. Not until now.

His hair was messy and unruly, as it'd always been. Fashionably unkempt, stylishly careless, just like the rest of him. Its colour seemed, in this semi-darkness, slightly more modest than its usual fiery red. Not that she didn't like it when it glowed, as it did in sunlight, but this slightly darker shade of red made him look so… grown-up. So serious. And it was thrilling in a way. At twenty-two, he was just about to take the final steps into manhood. Bit by bit, he was adjusting to playing the role of Mr Ronald Weasley, certified adult; but she could still see him as she'd always known him, as the tall, red-headed boy who'd lived through countless adventures with her, who was passionate and wild and always up to something, who never backed away from an argument as well as he never gave up on a friend, the boy who'd teased her and fought with her and called her a know-it-all, but who'd always, always stood up for her, no matter what. And now she saw him here, Ron Weasley, an old boy and at the same time a young man, and she found her stomach flutter at the mere thought of seeing him in a few years time, when he'd _really_ be a man, and what he would be like. She hoped he would still be Ron. An older, wiser and more serious Ron, surely, but still _him_. She hoped he would still be capable of pulling pranks on people, of innocently teasing Percy, and of bickering with her about stupid things and rolling his eyes at her sky-high ambitions. Because as much as she scolded him when he did such things, as little did she want him to stop doing them. It was part of who he was, of what made him Ron Weasley, and she didn't ever want him to be somebody else.

It was the puzzled look on Ron's face that made her realise she'd been staring at him far too long. And she was still smiling in a silly manner – a smile that she quickly lost. Blushing, she looked away, at loss of any possible comment. What could she say? She'd been staring at him – _studying _him – for quite some time, all the while smiling stupidly. How could she possibly explain that without making a fool of herself? "Oh, sorry Ron, I was just terribly amused by the print on your tank top." He'd never buy that. Sure, they'd all laughed long and hard when he'd first put it on, but it wasn't _that_ funny, and hardly entertaining enough to keep a goofy grin on her face for five minutes. Plus, he'd think she'd been staring at his _chest_ the whole time, and that would be… well, not very good.

He was eyeing her, brow furrowed.

"You hungry or something?"

She just about melted into a little puddle right there on the floor, that was how mortified she was to hear his words. Had she looked _hungry??!! _Oh, goodness, goodness, goodness… Somehow she managed to find her voice, or some semblance of it.

"No thank you," she croaked. "I'm just... tired."

__

Oh, how very clever, Hermione, she sneered mentally at herself, still blushing furiously. _What a marvellous explanation._

But he just gave her a brilliant smile, his eyes sparkling mirthfully.

"Well, forgive me, but if you're so damn tired, would you mind explaining to me why in the world you, instead of going to sleep, left my big, comfortable, inviting bed to come out here and bug me?"

After a brief embarrassment over hearing Ron refer to his own bed as "inviting", she found herself getting annoyed. "Well, excuse _me_ for disturbing your peaceful sleep," she spat. "I didn't mean to be such a nuisance. I guess I'll just leave you alone so you can go back to whatever stupid Quidditch dream you were having."

She turned around, ready to stomp off, but he grabbed her by the arm to stop her. Carefully turning her back around to face him, he stood there holding her by the arms in a gentle yet firm grip. She glared up at him, but couldn't stay angry after seeing his excusing expression.

"Sorry," he said. "You're not a nuisance. I was just trying to make a joke."

Of course he was. She knew that and felt ashamed for blowing up at him. "Sorry," she said as well. "I'm sorry for yelling. I'm just a bit… you know. Tonight. It's not you."

He nodded and gave her a little smile. "So why did you wake me?"

She took a deep breath, holding it in a while before breathing out, and looked away, feeling flustered. It suddenly seemed quite impossible to ask him if she could sleep out here. With him. It didn't matter how dark it was, or how simple it'd seemed when she'd been lying in Ron's bed. Some things were just too… _unconventional_ to be suggested.

"I couldn't sleep," she managed in a tiny voice. 

There was a pause of maybe four or five seconds before he spoke.

"D'you want to lie out here? With me?"

She didn't think she'd ever loved him as much as she did at that very moment. It was as if somebody had stuck their hand straight into her chest and given her heart a squeeze – the sensation was so physically evident it made her lift a hand to her chest. _How_ did he _know?_ How did he always know what she meant, what she wanted, even before she'd uttered the words? How did he always know how to, with no more than a few sentences, make her feel cared for and make her feel better? 

She looked up at him, wanting to respond, wanting to tell him yes, and thank you, and exactly how much his understanding meant to her. But her vocal cords refused to co-operate, and her throat was strangely tight. As he looked back at her, worry was evident in his eyes. Clearly he thought his offer had rendered her speechless with shock and offence. His cheeks began turning red, along with the tips of his ears.

"You don't…" he began, but had to pause to clear his voice. "You don't have to. I didn't mean…"

Wishing to free him from his embarrassment, she managed a quick nod and a shaky smile. He looked relieved, and she could've _sworn_ he even looked a bit pleased. Grateful that the awkwardness was out of the way, and that she was _actually_ going to get to lie next to Ron all night, Hermione sat down at one end of the sofa. Ron still stood, looking indecisive as whether or not to sit down next to her. She looked up at him, ignoring the fact that she must look ridiculously expectant. After a brief glance at her, he blushed, mumbled "I'll go get another blanket" and disappeared.

Hermione couldn't help smiling to herself. It was so typically Ron – so typically, adorably her best friend Ron – to get nervous when facing a situation like this one. It wasn't as if this would be the first time they slept next to each other, but he still got flustered at the thought. 

She remembered the first time they'd shared a bed, how agitated he'd seemed. He'd paced around for more than five minutes – making lame excuses to why he couldn't lie down next to her just yet – before he'd even come within ten feet of the bed. It'd been in their sixth year at Hogwart's, at a night on which Dumbledore had received a written threat – attached to a large rock which had been thrown through one of the windows of the Great Hall – where an infamous Death Eater had claimed Voldemort himself was heading for the school, with the simple intent to wipe out as many Muggle-born students as he could manage. Everyone had been ordered to the Great Hall, where they were to spend the night under the supervision of a large part of the faculty. The remaining teachers had taken turns to be on watch on various locations in the castle. The prefects – among them Ron and Hermione – had been put on guard in the common rooms. Dumbledore, who never wanted to jeopardise the safety of a student, had agreed to this only because he considered the possibility of Voldemort first heading to any of the common rooms nearly non-existent. When in the Gryffindor common room, Ron and Hermione had placed themselves on the sofa and engaged in conversation that was, despite the constant presence of Ron's joking remarks, quite grave. They'd discussed the written threat that had come flying through the window of the Great Hall, and whether or not it was to be taken seriously. They'd talked about the future and what it would look like for them, for everyone. They'd expressed their fears of having to live in a world controlled by Dark Magic, having to live in fear of losing family and friends, and having to bow down to a creature so cold and vile and heartless. And then they'd vowed to _never_, not ever, bow down to Voldemort. They'd agreed they'd rather die than have to live on his terms, and that they'd go down fighting him if it ever came to that.

With midnight approaching, both of them had showed clear signs of weariness. Hermione had stated that they needed to get some sleep, but that at least one of them had to be awake, so they would have to take turns. Ron, who'd been sixteen years old at the time, and had just begun to understand the characteristics of a gentleman, had offered to take the first shift and Hermione had gratefully, and without objection, made herself comfortable on the sofa.

But for some strange reason, and despite her weariness, she hadn't been able to fall asleep. Maybe it'd been the somewhat clichéd yet chilling combination of branches scraping the window and the wind howling menacingly. Maybe it'd been the thoughts that had filled her head the moment the room had gone quiet; terrifying thoughts triggered by their talk earlier, or rather the discussed issue itself.

Or maybe it had just been the fact that the distance between her and Ron was a painful fifteen feet, and it felt as if he wouldn't be able to save her, had Voldemort come barging in at that very moment, seeing as the sofa she was lying on was closer to the portrait-hole than his armchair.

Whatever the cause of her uneasiness had been, it had made her blurt out a request for Ron to come closer. The dim lighting, along with the ever growing fist of fear in her stomach, had stopped her from getting embarrassed after having expressed her wish. Ron had moved closer, somewhat hesitantly and clearly nervous. This had made Hermione feel strangely brave, and before she could stop herself, she'd heard herself ask him if he would mind lying down next to her. The moment the words had left her mouth, all her courage had left her and she'd felt herself blush furiously. Not that her facial colour had been anything compared to Ron's. His eyes had looked about ready to pop out of his head, and his whole face had been red enough to shame a sky in the final stages of a sunset. She'd started rambling – quite frantically at that – about why she'd like for him to lie next to her, and had been amazed at how reasonable her reasons sounded.

In the end he'd agreed it sounded like a good idea for them to stay as close together as possible. But he'd paced and babbled and coughed nervously for more than five minutes before he'd actually taken the plunge and placed himself next to her on the couch.

It'd been awkward at first, lying so close together, their bodies touching in so many places it was difficult for Hermione to concentrate on them all at the same time. But as time had passed, and as drowsiness had taken them over more and more, the awkwardness had slowly dissipated, and they'd shifted to make themselves more comfortable, not bothering with trying to prevent any increase of physical contact.

They'd rested like that, side by side and subsequently in each other's arms, until they'd heard footsteps approaching outside the portrait-hole sometime during the early morning hours. It'd been McGonnagall, coming to fetch them and thank them for their help, and undoubtedly she'd registered – as well as had some idea of the cause of – the two students' flushed faces, because she'd given them a knowing smile before announcing that an early breakfast was being served in the Great Hall. She'd also informed them that the teachers had, after a night of thorough investigation, been able to conclude that the written threat had been a distasteful and unacceptable joke performed by a former student from the house of Slytherin – a boy who also happened to be Draco Malfoy's cousin.

Ron's and Hermione's sharing of the sofa in the Gryffindor common room that night was something that no one knew of besides themselves (and, to a certain degree, Professor McGonnagall). They hadn't even mentioned it to Harry. It'd been a silent agreement between them to keep it to themselves, not only because of the high taunting-risk a depiction, however brief, of the night's events would bring, but also because of the fact that this was something that was completely _theirs_. Something only the two of them had shared. And it felt as if telling somebody else about it would make it too public, too much a case for everybody to dissect and discuss and make their own. And it _wasn't_ theirs. It was hers. Hers and Ron's.

Ron returned to the living room, carrying a black and grey wool-quilt, which Hermione couldn't help but think, would look awful together with the blue and green of the sofa. He stood there for a moment, hugging the quilt and staring out the window, something Hermione took as yet another sign of nervousness. She was just about to give him an exasperated "Oh, for heaven's sake, Ron!" when his gaze suddenly shifted to her, and he made his way to the sofa in two long strides. She moved inwards, making room for him to lie down, but he didn't. Instead he sat down with his back to her and placed his head in his hands, letting out a sigh. 

Hermione frowned, puzzled by this sudden display of resignation. After a moment of hesitation, she reached out a hand and touched his shoulder. At this, he turned around and looked down at her, giving her a small smile which was sad and excusing and affectionate all at once. He took her hand, which was still on his shoulder, in his and held it for a while, studying it. Finally he spoke.

"I don't know what to do with this," he said in a somewhat strained voice.

"With what, my hand?" Hermione joked, desperate to lighten things up a bit. It wasn't often that Ron was subdued like this, and the few times it happened, Hermione didn't really know how to handle it. 

Her lame attempt at a joke seemed to have some of the intended effect as Ron turned to meet her eyes again, this time giving her a smile that was a little less dismal.

"You know what I mean."

In a sense she did. But a part of her was a bit worried about what Ron meant when he said he didn't know what to do with this. What did he feel like he had to do? She wanted to make him understand that his being here right now was enough. She didn't need anything more from him.

"Ron, you don't…"

"I know what you're going to say," he interrupted, once again looking away. "I know you'll say I don't have to do anything, that you'll be fine on your own and that you don't need me taking care of things for you. But I just…"

He paused, looking almost pained.

"I just can't help feeling like I could've stopped this."

Hermione retracted her hand from his and placed it on his cheek, gently turning his head and forcing him to look at her.

"Don't you dare think that, Ron Weasley," she said. "Don't you _dare_. You have no fault in this, no fault whatsoever, you hear me?"

"Hermione…"

"No, you listen to me now. There is no way you could've stopped this, no possible way. _Gary_ was the one who hurt me, not you. He's entirely to blame. And I don't want you going around believing anything else."

He didn't respond at once, and when he did he shifted his gaze to somewhere right above her head.

"Look, Hermione, I'm not daft. It's not like I believe I'm solely responsible for everything that's happened to you. But it doesn't matter what you say, it still feels like I could've done something to stop this. I mean… I _knew_, I just _knew_ there was something dodgy about that git, I sensed it the first time I met him."

Hermione couldn't help but smile. She remembered all too well Ron's stiff posture and icy tone when he'd first been introduced to Gary. It'd been in this very apartment, at one of Ron's dinner parties, and after dinner he'd given his verdict. "Smarmy bugger, if you ask me. Someone who comes to a dinner party all dressed up in a suit like that is either involved in something illegal or plainly an obnoxious snob." He'd been speaking to Harry, but Hermione had overheard and told him off for being so judgmental and superficial, and for not trusting her to pick a nice boyfriend. He'd muttered something about Gary being rude to him – "in my own, bloody apartment" – but Hermione had defended Gary and said that he was probably nervous, seeing as he didn't know anyone there but her.

She'd _defended_ him. Of course, that was before he'd felt the need to prove his power over her. She _had_ liked him, maybe even been seriously in love with him. 

It'd all started out so perfectly. He was so handsome and stylish and polite, and had brought flowers for her on their first date. All her friends (well, everyone except Ron) had been impressed by his good-nature and sophistication and had immediately approved of him, urging Hermione to bring him with her whenever she came for a visit. And she'd revelled in it. She'd loved having a boyfriend whom everybody appreciated, she'd loved the envious glares she'd gotten from other girls when she and Gary went out together, and she'd loved introducing him to people, hooking her arm in his and casually saying "…and this is Gary…", as if it wasn't something to make a big deal of.

Looking back, it was hard to see how something that had started out so perfectly could've ended so horribly. How it could've ended with her taking somebody's _life_. 

At this thought, a cold hand closed around her heart and the panic rose in her again. She looked up at Ron, almost pleadingly, and it was as if there was a window straight into her head, allowing him to see just how scared and helpless she felt, because without a word he turned and laid down by her side. Lying on his back, he opened his arms to her and she crept closer, placing her head on his chest. She could feel his breath in her hair and she squeezed her eyes shut, allowing herself to be completely enclosed in his warmth and his scent.

"I wasn't, you know," he murmured, suddenly. She opened her eyes, puzzled.

"Wasn't what?"

"Dreaming about Quidditch."

She smiled at this, having forgotten her earlier accusation. "Okay," she whispered, shifting her head a little to get more comfortable. Her hand was resting on his chest and she felt him lace his fingers through hers, then lift her hand and kiss it, ever so lightly. As he put her hand back and let it go, she burrowed deeper into his chest and he held her even tighter.

It wasn't awkward. Not at all. It was just safe. And warm. 

She didn't even have time to marvel at the sudden peace and quiet in her head before something – or some_one_, rather – softly carried her off into sleep.

-------------------

A/N: Ha. Didn't I say it was going to be fluffy? Anyway, to be honest, I don't expect to have another chapter up any time soon, 'cause seeing as I'm a tad over-ambitious, I'm working on a number of stories at the same time, and the chapter-posting tends to be, well, not very frequent. I'm really, really sorry about this. But a great big thank you goes out to all you patient people who take time to read and review. Thanks!!


	3. Only a matter of time

DISCLAIMER: See first instalment.

A/N (brace yourselves, 'cause this will be a long one): Well. Where do I start? Maybe by apologizing to all the wonderful people that have read and reviewed this story. You're angels, the lot of you. And I'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. The past year (*looks at previous date of Update* Ooops, year and a _half_) has been, well… moderately busy. I graduated from high school this summer, and my senior year was crazy, I barely had time to breathe. As for the past six months, I've been working and simply… adjusting to the fact that I'm not in school at the moment. And I've been completely _stuck_ when it comes to this story. Writer's block, I guess. And just so you know, I haven't been sitting for a year and a half constantly working on this chapter (so please don't expect it to be an "East of Eden", quality-wise). What more? Well, I partially dedicate this chapter to Sara from Italy, who sent me a wonderful e-mail, politely asking (when she should have been yelling curses at me and my laziness) about the future of this story. And then all of a sudden there was a third chapter. So thanks, Sara :) 

That said, I hope you'll enjoy this part!

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**Caught in the Fire**

**Part 3**

Hermione stared intently into the pot, waiting for the water to boil. She knew she didn't have to do it, and she was aware of the fact that it certainly wouldn't make the water start boiling any quicker, but she couldn't help herself. It was an annoying little compulsive act she'd picked up from her mother, who'd always insisted on keeping her eyes on the water as she waited for it to boil.

When the first few bubbles finally appeared on the surface, Hermione took the pot off the stove and proceeded with making a cup of cloudberry-and-sage-tea for herself. She pondered whether or not she should make a cup for Ron as well, but decided against it, seeing as he was still sleeping soundly on the sofa, and she didn't want to wake him up just yet. It was, after all, her fault that he hadn't gotten a full night of sleep.

When she'd woken up this morning, it'd taken a few seconds for her mind to figure out where she was and why she was there. The person whose chest her head was lying on seemed unusually warm – she wasn't used to waking up to such warmth. And the hand resting on the small of her back was larger than the hands she was used to. The scent of this person was different, too. Sweeter. And more appealing. 

Once she'd processed all this, she sleepily lifted her head to find out who this mystery person was. Red hair, a freckled face and soft lips curved into a smile even in his current state of deep sleep. A murmur escaped the lips – something that sounded a lot like, "Go Cannons."

_And he claimed he hadn't beent dreaming about Quidditch last night, _Hermione thought to herself and smiled as she took a sip of her tea. It tasted impossibly good, and she couldn't help but let out a small sigh of contentment.

"Good tea?"

She looked up and saw Ron standing in the doorway, scratching his head absent-mindedly. His hair was an absolute mess and his eyes were only half-open.

"Yes, it was, actually," she said, taking another sip.

Ron walked on legs heavy with sleep towards the counter, and made himself a cup of tea. His coordination was apparently not at its best during the morning hours, and Hermione smiled to herself as he poured just as much outside the cup as into it. Yawning widely, he then hobbled over and sat down opposite her at the table. She studied him as he stared into his teacup, a distant look in his eyes. He clearly wasn't ready to take on the new day yet.

She decided on starting off in a simple manner. "Sleep well?" she asked. It took a while before he reacted, and when he did, it was with a slow nod.

"What did you think of the tea?" she asked then, aware of the fact that he hadn't taken a single sip of it yet.

"Good," he said, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Ron, you haven't even tasted it yet."

He slowly looked up at her, then looked down at his cup again. "Oh," he stated simply.

Hermione smiled and shook her head. She'd never known anyone as drowsy in the morning as Ron. In fact, she didn't understand how he managed to get up in time now that he was working. Maybe he had some special alarm clock that…

_Working!_

Hermione jumped up from her seat. Startled at the sudden movement within his field of vision, Ron turned his gaze from the cup and looked up at her, blinking.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

Hermione pointed to the clock on the wall. "Ron! You're supposed to be at work! You're _awfully late and you have to get __going!"_

Ron looked at her, his face completely blank. "Work?" he asked.

"Yes!" Hermione felt that familiar wave of frustration roll over her. "Work! You know, that place where you go to earn money, so that you can eat and buy clothes and avoid getting evicted from your apartment?"

Ron crinkled his brows. "Oh," he said, simply. "That."

Hermione was about to perform some crazy act of frustration, like throwing her cup out the window, when he actually formed a full sentence.

"I don't have to go to work today," he said and then finally took a small sip of his tea. "I was given a day off."

Hermione crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, looking at him doubtingly. "Ron, you weren't… you weren't _fired, were you?"_

This comment seemed to wake Ron up completely. He sat up straight and glared at her, insulted. "No, I wasn't _fired," he said huffily. "I was told I could take a day off this week, and seeing as I haven't done that yet, and today is Friday, I don't have to go to work today."_

Hermione shrugged. "Okay, if you say so. I was just checking."

Ron pursed his lips, a haughty look on his face. "Fired," he muttered with a snort and took another, somewhat cautious sip of his tea.

They fell silent, and Hermione turned to gaze out the window. It looked as if it was going to be an absolutely beautiful day, in contrast to the past few weeks' howling winds and pouring rain. This winter had been less about crisp, sunny mornings and light snowfalls and more about raging storms, of the kind that usually dominated the autumn months. But today it seemed as if winter had suddenly realised how little of an effort it'd made, and wished to compensate them all for the lack of characteristic, seasonal weather.

Hermione turned to Ron, about to suggest they'd take a walk in the wonderful weather later on, but found him looking at her with a somewhat concerned look on his face.

"What?" she asked, truly puzzled by his strange expression.

He didn't answer immediately, but when he did, it was in an almost cautious tone.

"Hermione, how are you?"

She didn't catch on at once. How was she? What did he mean? Did she seem out of sorts in any way? But then realisation dawned on her, and she swallowed hard, fighting the panic that was rising inside of her. She looked away, unable to hold Ron's gaze.

"I'm fine," she said, sounding anything but convincing. "A bit tired, that's all."

"You sure?"

"M-hm."

Her attempts to make it sound as if everything was back to normal were almost ludicrous. Honestly, who was she trying to fool?

"You're not in any pain?" Ron asked, and his question made her eyes sting. Was she in pain? It was hard to tell. Maybe she was, but it'd become so much of a regularity that she'd simply stopped noticing.

"No," she whispered. "No pain."

But that wasn't true. Because where the physical wounds had stopped bothering her, there'd landed something bigger and darker and infinitely more painful. It was in her heart and in her mind, and something told her that it was incurable.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said, and maybe it was this sudden sincerity that stopped Ron from further pursuing the matter, even though he obviously was less than happy to let it rest. With a small sigh, he rose from his seat and walked over to the counter. It was only then, when he had his back to her, that she dared look at him. He stood, head bowed, with his hands on the counter, and she could almost see how he was trying to come up with another, less disheartening topic of conversation.

"So," he said finally, and turned to face her, thereby forcing her to look away again.

"Yes?" she queried, studying her teacup with sudden, great interest. Anything to avoid having to meet his worried and questioning and painfully blue eyes.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled. "Have you read anything good lately?"

The inquiry was so absurd and ill timed that she forgot all about how hard it was to meet his gaze. She turned to him, eyebrows raised and ready to tell him straight out what a strange question it was, but refrained from doing so as she saw the slightly worried and positively adorable look in his eyes. She could almost hear what his thoughts had been while he'd stood silent by the counter: _Alright, she doesn't want to talk about it. So we should talk about something else, something less upsetting… I've got it - books! We'll talk about books. That ought to cheer her up._

And it was once again proven to Hermione how well Ron knew her, because it _did _cheer her up. The mere thought of the stacks of intriguing books she'd read lately was enough to make her smile.

"Why yes, Ron, I have actually," she said, and felt that familiar tug at her heart-strings as he gave her a brilliant smile, clearly relieved.

"Alright," he said, clapping his hands together. "Let's hear then."

She smiled to herself, amused by his uncharacteristic enthusiasm over hearing her talk about recent books she'd read. He walked over to the chair and sat down once again, resting his elbows on the table and silently urging her to begin.

"Right," Hermione said, searching her mind. Which was the last book she'd read? 

"Well, I just finished "Lice Versus Luxury", an account of the social differences within the wizarding community."

"Sounds interesting."

"Yes, it was, actually. It's quite shocking to read about how some people live their lives in wealth and affluence, while there are families where the parents can't even afford to buy their children functional school supplies."

"Yeah, I know," Ron said, looking suddenly grim, and Hermione could've kicked herself. How could she have been so stupid, so insensitive? She hardly needed to sit here and inform him about the economical rifts in the wizarding world; he'd seen more than enough of how unfair life could be when it came to things like that.

"I'm sorry," she said, embarrassed. "That was awfully… I didn't think of…"

But Ron seemed to already have forgotten. "Don't worry about it," he said, and gave her a bright smile. "Any more books?"

Hermione, still feeling a bit stupid, racked her brain for more books to tell him about. There'd been that novel that she'd…

Then she suddenly remembered something. Something she'd seen in Ron's bedroom last night and made a mental note to ask him about. She looked up at him quizzically. "Ron…" she began.

"Yes?" he queried.

"Since when do you read Muggle novels?"

At first he just stared back at her, confusion all over his features. Then, as he evidently realized which novel she was referring to, a flush started creeping up his cheeks. "Muggle novels?" he asked, his voice sounding somewhat constrained.

"Yes, Muggle novels."

"Hermione, I don't…"

"It's no use acting as if you don't know what I'm talking about," she interrupted. "Last night, in your room, I saw a copy of "Watership Down" on your bedside table."

Ron opened his mouth as if to object, but then closed it again. He looked away, clearly bothered by this revelation. "I didn't mean for anyone to see that," he mumbled.

"Where did you get it from?"

Ron sighed and turned his gaze to the floor, the ceiling and the kitchen counter, all in quick succession. "I was over at Harry's a few weeks ago, and I needed something to read, so I asked him if he had anything good. He told me to have a look in the bookcase, which I did, and I, well… I settled for that one."

He looked at her then, an expression of near defiance on his flushed face, and it was this mock-me-if-you-dare look that stopped Hermione from actually giving him a hard time about his choice. But she couldn't help asking him why he'd ended up choosing that one, and when she did, Ron made a face, clearly unwilling to share the answer with her.

"You'll laugh," he said.

"I won't!" How could she ever laugh at him when he was looking so adorably bashful?

"You will. And you'd be right to. It's ruddy stupid, really."

"Of course it isn't stupid. No reason for reading a book is stupid."

"This one is."

"Oh, for goodness sake, Ron! Just tell me and get it over with! You know I won't give up."

He grinned at this. "Sure do. You're the epitome of perseverance."

She raised her eyebrows. 

"What?" he asked.

"The epitome of perseverance?" she said, incredulous.

"Yeah. It means that you're the embodiment of persistence, you know, the…"

"I know what it means," she interrupted. "I just, well… I didn't think that _you…_" She didn't finish the sentence, seeing as every possible ending to it would sound like an enormous insult. "Never mind," she said. "Just tell me."

"Fine," Ron muttered. "You'll never give up anyway." He took a deep breath and once again averted his eyes from hers. "The reason I chose the book is… Well, the fact that I chose that particular book…" He drew in another deep breath. "How shall I put it… The main reason to why I…"

He was getting nowhere, so Hermione decided to help him out. "Maybe the plot appealed to you?" she asked, although she doubted this was it.

Ron looked at her, his face lighting up. "Yeah! That was it. The plot appealed to me."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "Okay," she said slowly, unable to keep the scepticism out of her voice. "So you're telling me that you chose a book about _rabbits _over, say, a book about Muggle spies, because the _plot ap__pealed to you?"_

Ron looked offended at her evident disbelief. "You're the one who phrased it that way, not me! But yes, that's why I chose it. I thought the story seemed good, and it seemed… Well, it seemed like there weren't too many _bad _things, you know? There weren't a whole lot of evil characters and dark forces and stuff like that, there were just rabbits, and their problems, and even if I initially thought it seemed pretty bloody daft to actually write a book about that, I ended up thinking it was really good, because it wasn't… it wasn't…" He trailed off, an almost desperate look in his eyes as he couldn't seem to find the words. "Look, it was just nice, okay?" he finished testily, and rested a flushed cheek in his hand. 

A warm wave of fondness washed over Hermione as she studied him. How was it that some things he said, however ineloquent, could make her heart swell with a love so fierce it was almost unbearable? How could he, with the simplest of statements and gestures, awaken inside her such a strong urge to protect him, to shield him from all things that could threaten to take away the elements that made him the person he was; that made him her own, wonderful Ron?

"It _is _nice," she finally said in a soft voice.

"You've read it?" Ron asked, then shook his head. "What am I thinking? Of course you've read it."

"Three times, even."

"_Three times?" Ron's face bore an expression of equal incredulity and awe. "Why would you do that?"_

"Because I liked it the first time, perhaps?"

"Yeah, but I mean, it's still the same story, isn't it? Doesn't the excitement sort of disappear when you know what's going to happen?"

Hermione shrugged. "I didn't only read it for the excitement. I read it because I liked the way it made me feel."

"And how did it make you feel?" Ron's voice was almost expectant, as if he hoped for a specific answer.

"I don't know. Safe, I guess."

"Yeah?"

"M-hm. And… hopeful."  
"Hopeful?"

She nodded. "It made me feel like, however bad a situation gets, you can always come through, just as long as there's someone there for you. Just as long as you help each other out."

Ron gazed at her, a puzzling look in his eyes that made Hermione feel somewhat embarrassed. "It sounds soppy, I know," she said.

Ron shook his head. "No, no, not at all. I, uh… I agree."

"You do?"

"Absolutely."

They fell silent, and it was not until now that Hermione realised the minor absurdity of this scene. It was, to her recollection, the first time they'd ever discussed a work of fiction that they'd both actually read. This notion curved her lips into a small smile.

But the smile instantly vanished when there was a determined knock on the door. She stared at Ron in alarm, and he looked equally worried.

"Who in the—" he began, but was interrupted by someone calling from outside the apartment.

"_Ron? Are you there, love?_"

Ron's eyes widened and he flew up from his seat. "It's _Mum!_" he exclaimed, and this caused Hermione to jump up as well. She drew her hands up to her face, instinctively covering her bruises.

"_Ron?"_ came Mrs Weasley's voice again.

"In a minute!" Ron yelled and frantically drew a hand through his hair. Turning his gaze to Hermione, he said, "You should—"

"—hide," she filled in.

"Yeah," he said and nodded, then shook his head. "I mean, it's not that she wouldn't want to see you, it's just—"

"—all for the best," Hermione finished.

"Really?" Ron asked, looking concerned. "I mean, you're okay with it?"

"Definitely." She most certainly didn't want Mrs Weasley to see her in her current state, so hiding seemed like the perfect solution.

Ron seemed assured, and started leading her towards his bedroom. But they'd gotten no further than a few feet when a loud _crack_ echoed through the room.

Hermione's heart almost stopped beating when she realised that Mrs Weasley had just Apparated into the apartment, and was now standing at the entrance to the living room. The plump woman opened her mouth to greet Ron.

"Ron, I…"

She trailed off mid-sentence as she registered the fact that her son wasn't alone. She looked from Ron to Hermione, and then back to Ron again, before finally managing to deliver Hermione a pleasant smile that would've been rather convincing if it weren't for the fact that the corners of her mouth twitched slightly.

"Hermione," she said. "What a surprise."

"Good morning, Molly," Hermione managed, even though it felt as if her voice was stuck somewhere near her larynx. She felt her cheeks flush and looked down at her feet, making sure her hair concealed the bruises on her face.

"Yeah, morning Mum," Ron said. "Fancy having you Apparating into my living room at—" he checked his watch, "—nine-fifteen in the morning."

_Oh, clever, _Hermione thought. Ron was turning the whole this-is-too-awkward-for-words situation around on his mother.

Mrs Weasley looked slightly offended. "Well, forgive me for wanting to pay my dear son a visit! Next time I'll let you know two weeks in advance, so you'll be able to make up an excuse not to see me!"

Hermione almost smiled. Mrs Weasley was famous, or infamous rather, for her guilt-inducing talents. And Ron did indeed look quite ashamed. "That wasn't what I meant, Mum. I just… I mean, minutes ago you were outside the door, and I told you I was on my way, but instead you chose to help yourself inside. It's a bit strange, is all."

Mrs Weasley looked almost smug. "Oh, really?" she said, raising an eyebrow, and once again looking from her son to Hermione. Clearly, the fact that she'd Apparated into Ron's apartment wasn't what she considered to be _strange_ at the moment. Hermione felt her face grow even hotter.

"I was just…" she began, her eyes still fixed on the floor.

"Yeah, Hermione was just…" Ron tried, but couldn't seem to find the words. "Well, the reason she's here is…"

"Oh, you don't have to explain," Mrs Weasley said. "There's no reason why two very good friends shouldn't be allowed to meet up at any time, now is there?" The look of smugness on her face increased. "And besides, I don't think I was alone in believing that it was only a matter of time—"

"_Mum,_" Ron cut her off sternly.

"Yes, dear?" Mrs Weasley was looking insufferably innocent.

"What, if I may ask, brings you here? Besides a sudden impulse to visit me, that is."

"Well," Mrs Weasley began. "I consulted the clock this morning, and found that everyone was where they should be – namely at work – except for you, who still appeared to be at home."

Hermione had forgotten about the clock. Mrs Weasley had revised it a few years ago, when all the children were out of the house, so that she could still keep track of them and make sure they were alright.

"Discovering this," Mrs Weasley continued, "I asked Ginny, who's staying with us for a couple of days, why it might be that you hadn't managed to get to work today, and she informed me that she thought you might have a day off. So we decided to pop in for a visit."

Ron nodded slowly. "Okay. Well, as it happens to be, I _do_ have a day off today, although I think I have to take this free time to…" He trailed off. "Hang on."

"What, dear?" Mrs Weasley queried.

Ron furrowed his brow. "You said 'we'."

"Yes I did."

"But there's only you here."

"I know."

"Well, either you've suddenly become a megalomaniac and started referring to yourself as "we", or you're expecting someone else to arrive soon."

"I _am _expecting someone else to arrive soon."

Hermione's heart virtually stopped beating. Someone _else_ was coming? Wasn't this – stupidly standing here, unable to look Mrs Weasley in the eye – bad enough? She glanced up at Ron, and judging by his expression his thoughts seemed to go along the same lines as hers.

"In fact," Mrs Weasley said, checking her watch, "She should be here any—"

She was interrupted by a loud _crack that made both Ron and Hermione jump._

"Hello, Mum. Ron. Sorry I'm a bit…"

Ginny Weasley trailed off as she took in the sight before her. It was like seeing a re-enactment of Mrs Weasley's reaction upon arriving. Ginny looked from one to the other quite a few times, before finally resting her eyes on Hermione.

"Hi," she said simply, and for a moment Hermione forgot herself. She looked up at her friend and smiled, slightly embarrassed. "Good morning," she said, and for a split second she couldn't understand why Ginny's expression turned from surprised to horrified, but then she remembered, and her heart started pounding frantically. She wanted to run off and hide somewhere, but found she couldn't move. Instead she just stood there, and now Mrs Weasley, too, was staring at her face in shock. Hermione vaguely registered Ron's hand taking her arm in a firm grip.

"Her_mione!" Mrs Weasley exclaimed, and clapped a hand over her mouth._

Ginny reached her friend in mere seconds. She put her hands on Hermione's face, gently checking the bruises.

"Oh, dear," she mumbled, but said no more, and Hermione was utterly grateful that she didn't immediately ask any questions. This gave her frantically working mind some time to come up with possible explanations. What could she claim? That she'd walked into something? No, that was too obvious. Maybe she'd fallen. That could work…

Yes, she'd fallen.

Ginny's hands stopped moving on her face and the redhead took a step back, still eyeing her friend worriedly. Hermione glanced over at Mrs Weasley, who stood rooted to the ground, her hand still clutched over her mouth. Desperate to deliver some sort of explanation, Hermione cleared her throat and spoke.

"I fell," she said, and although the lie seemed all too evident to her, she continued, "It was silly, really… I was wearing my new robes, and they were far too long – I'd known that when I bought them – but I hadn't had time to turn them up, so I thought if I'd just be careful, it wouldn't be a problem. But you know me, always in a rush… So I hurried down the stairs and made it almost all the way down, but then I tripped, and I… I fell."

The silence hung heavy in the air after her statement. She found she couldn't look at Ginny or Mrs Weasley, so she fixed her gaze on a point somewhere between the two. Ron's grip on her arm loosened slightly, and he spoke.

"Yeah, she fell down the stairs. Last night. And she managed to drop her keys down into the lift shaft at the same time, and Gary wasn't home, so she decided to come here."

Hermione silently thanked him for this. She hadn't even thought about having to come up with an explanation to why she was here and not at home. With Gary. Her hands started trembling at the thought of him and she balled them into fists, willing herself to calm down.

It was first now that she dared look up at Ginny and Mrs Weasley. The elder woman had removed her hand from her face, and her expression was now concerned as opposed to horrified.

"Oh, my dear Hermione," she said. "How dreadful! Were you much hurt?"

There was a part of Hermione that wanted to say "Yes!" and run sobbing into the arms of Mrs Weasley, but instead she gave a shaky smile and said, "Not terribly. It looks worse than it feels."

Mrs Weasley turned to Ron. "Have you taken care of her properly?"

Ron shrugged. "I've done my best."

Mrs Weasley didn't look convinced, and a sudden need to assure the older woman of her son's brilliant qualities caused Hermione to blurt out, "He's been wonderful."

Once the words were out, she blushed crimson – not so much at the rather pleased look on Ron's face as at Mrs Weasley's once again smug expression as she said, "Oh, has he?"

Wishing to relieve herself from further embarrassment, Hermione turned to face Ginny, but found her stomach churning unpleasantly as she saw the look of doubt on her friend's face.

"You sure you're alright?" Ginny said.

"Oh, yes, yes," Hermione said. Her voice sounded far too cheery. "I'm okay now. A bit sore, but okay."

Ginny nodded slowly, and Hermione got the distinct feeling that her friend hadn't believed a word she'd said. She forced herself to hold Ginny's gaze, knowing that were she to break it, it would be a clear sign that she hadn't been telling the truth.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Ginny said, "Good." Then she turned to her brother. "Ron, I have to get going in an hour or two, but a cup of tea would be nice."

Hermione couldn't help but smile at Ginny's characteristic straight-forwardness.

Ron gestured to the kitchen. "The pot's on the counter, the tea's in the black box and the water's in the tap. Help yourself."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Ginny raised an eyebrow. 

Ron sighed. "Fine, I'll make it for you." 

Ginny gave him a brilliant smile. "Thank you, darling brother."

As Ron disappeared into the kitchen, Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley sat down together on the sofa. Hermione placed her hands in her lap, her heart hammering against her ribcage. There was no way in which she could feel relaxed right now. It felt as if anything she'd say would give her away somehow. She wondered if the others noticed how she was sitting almost apprehensively on the edge of her seat, as if ready to jump up and run at any moment.

"Oh, I do love this coffee table," Mrs Weasley said pleasantly. "It blends in so nicely. Don't you think it blends in nicely?"

"Absolutely," Hermione said quickly, eager as she was to start a neutral conversation of some sort.

"It's such a wonderful work of craftsmanship," Mrs Weasley continued. "And I'm glad I _did _find it, because this room certainly needed a touch of class. Didn't I tell you it needed a touch of class, Ginny?"

"Yes Mum, you did," Ginny replied, humouring her mother, but Hermione caught the suppressed grin on her friend's face.

"And I _did give it a touch of class. I know Ron thinks I interfere sometimes – just like Bill thinks, when it comes to his hair – and maybe I do, but it's for their own good, it really is. Decent living quarters and smart appearances are basic necessities if you wish to go far in life." Mrs Weasley had by now worked herself up quite a bit, and it was evident that she could go on for some time. "It's all about creating an image – preferably a valid one – of yourself as a respectable citizen; someone who isn't fazed by the prospect of fortune coming with hard work…"_

As Mrs Weasley went off on an elaborate rant about the connection between stylish coffee tables and a prosperous working life, Hermione found herself feeling more and more at ease. It seemed to her that the risk of being interrogated further by any of the guests was decreasing by the minute. She relaxed even more when Ron returned with a pot of tea, four mugs and a tray of biscuits. Mrs Weasley stopped in her monologue long enough to grab a biscuit, then continued.

"I was just saying, Ron, that I do think the coffee table worked wonders for this place. Not that I want to boast about my eye for decorative detail, I just wanted to point out that it _does _fit in, and remind you that it is _I_ who am behind this."

Ron nodded. "In other words, you'd like to gloat for a bit, eh?"

Mrs Weasley looked as if she was about to object to his choice of words, but couldn't stop the tiniest of smirks from appearing on her face. "Hmph," she simply said, looking pleased, and took a sip of her tea, which Ron had placed in front of her.

Ron poured a cup of tea for Ginny, and then turned to Hermione.

"Do you really want another cup of this?" he asked, his eyebrows slightly raised.

"I think I do, yes," she said. "Is there any reason why I shouldn't?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe 'cause it tastes like—" and then he said something that made Ginny choke on her tea and Mrs Weasley slam her hand on the table.

"_Ron!_"

Ron rolled his eyes as he poured Hermione a cup of tea, but he was clearly pleased with the reaction. "Crikey," he muttered. "Can't say what I want in my own bloody place…" He handed her the cup, and when she took it, her fingertips grazed the back of his hand. 

His wonderful, warm hand. 

Was it intentional on her part? She didn't even know. All she knew was that she was suddenly sixteen years old again and every cell in her body was buzzing as if they wanted her to disintegrate right then and there. Her silly little heart hammered against her ribcage as she lifted the cup to her lips and took a sip.

_Oh Ron Ron Ron Ron Ron…_

If she'd been alone, she would've laughed. It was so absurd, all her feelings when it came to him. The way an insignificant little event, like her touching the back of his hand, could reduce her insides to jelly and make her whole body tingle. It didn't make sense.

And yet it did.

She sneaked a glance at him and saw that his cheeks were flushed. He was also taking an unnaturally long time pouring himself a cup of tea. _And he didn't even want tea_, she thought and smiled to herself. It made her both uneasy and immensely happy to see that he'd been just as affected by that millisecond of physical contact as she'd been.

"So, Ron," Mrs Weasley began, "Why on earth were you given a day off today?"

Ron took a biscuit, broke a corner of it off and threw it in his mouth. "They said I could have a day off this week, and I chose this day."

Mrs Weasley looked very sceptical. "Ron," she said, narrowing her eyes. "You weren't… fired, were you?"

Recognising her own words from earlier that day, Hermione managed to resist the urge to laugh out loud as Ron slammed his fist onto the table, clearly annoyed. "_No, _I wasn't _fired_," he snapped. "Why does everyone assume that's the case just 'cause I was given a day off?"

Mrs Weasley looked slightly affronted. "Well, forgive me for being concerned," she said. "But as your mother, I think I have the right to ask…"

And Hermione watched in amusement as Ron and Mrs Weasley heatedly – yet all the while with an evident, underlying fondness – debated this matter back and forth. She leaned her back against the backrest of the sofa, pulled her legs up and just listened. Took it all in. Revelled in the warmth emanating from every person in the room. Glanced at Ron and allowed her body to tingle some more.

In the middle of the craziness that was her world at the moment, this was as close to a perfect moment as she could get.

-------------------------------------------

A/N: Just out of curiosity… Is there anyone else who loves Watership Down? 'Cause it's one of my favourite books and it would be nice to hear if someone else likes it as much as I do.

As for chapter four… Well, I'll get to it as soon as I can. But I'll make no promises as to when it'll be done.

Thanks for your patience!


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